"They have been in a very bad place all night," said the Captain.
"They are glad to be here, they say."
"You mean that they have been in a dangerous place?"
The men were laughing among themselves and pushing forward one of
their number. Urged by their rapid French, he held out his cap to me.
It had been badly torn by a German bullet. Encouraged by his example,
another held out his cap. The crown had been torn almost out of it.
"You see," said Captain Boisseau, "it was not a comfortable night. But
they are here, and they are content."
I could understand it, of course, but "here" seemed so pitifully poor
a place--a wet and cold and dirty coach house, open to all the winds
that blew; before it a courtyard stabling army horses that stood to
the fetlocks in mud. For food they had what the boy of twenty-two or
other cooks like him were preparing over tiny fires built against
brick walls. But they were alive, and there were letters from home,
and before very long they expected to drive the Germans back in one of
those glorious charges so dear to the French heart. They were here,
and they were content.
More sheds, more small fires, more paring of potatoes and onions and
simmering of stews. The meal of the day was in preparation and its
odours were savoury. In one shed I photographed the cook, paring
potatoes with a knife that looked as though it belonged on the end of
a bayonet.
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